Screw it, said I. While my grandmother took her nap I turned on the furnace.
I'm tired of being fucking cold all the time. I swear, it's been warmer outside the house than inside.
Just yesterday my grandmother complained about being cold. “We could turn on the heat,” said I.
“No,” she said. “We never turned the furnace on before Thanksgiving. Some years we wouldn't run it at all.” I should have coughed bullshit, but it was enough to think it.
She doesn't want to run the furnace, and yet she's perfectly happy to run the oven full blast with its door wide open to radiate heat into the kitchen.
Don't worry, dear readers, when I catch her doing this I shut it off. “The oven's not meant to be run this way,” I've said. Sometimes I'll even play into her delusion that the oven dates to about 1910 as a reason not to do what she's done. (No, the oven dates to about 1985. Where this 1910 stuff comes from I've no idea.)
So, right now, my office and bedroom aren't freaking iceboxes. I've regained feeling in my feet. We'll see how long this lasts.